


nobody knows

by undeliveredtruth



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Doyoung-centric, Existential Angst, Face Slapping, I also wish I could say this has a happy ending but it depends, I wish I could say he's a good person in this but isn't, M/M, Rough Sex, Singer Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung, mentions of pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeliveredtruth/pseuds/undeliveredtruth
Summary: Doyoung hates all the things that he loves.Music, Taeyong, and first and foremost... himself.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong, Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	nobody knows

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ: This work features smoking, mentions of alcohol and drug use, also sort of cheating on Yuta's behalf. So if you read, beware of that.
> 
> This work was heavily inspired by the song [nobody knows by mansionz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQke6DGvofY), which I really recommend listening to and reading the lyrics to before reading for the full effect, and also because it's an incredible song. I won't pretend this is more than just my way to out my angst on Doyoung, so don't expect much more than angst. Hope you enjoy it!

Doyoung stubs the cigarette in the ashtray. His manager’s voice rings delightfully loud in his ears— _q_ _uit that shit, Doyoung, you’re gonna ruin your voice, it’s not good for you—_

Doyoung lights another one. Taeyong is due to arrive at any moment, and he hates the taste of ash on Doyoung’s tongue.

Well, even Taeyong would prefer that to the taste of someone else, at least, so maybe he should thank Doyoung instead. He’s doing this out of _courtesy._

His head spins when he gets up—wow, _wow,_ maybe those things were stronger than he thought. He should be more careful with what stuff he smokes, especially when strangers in foreign bars give it to him.

A knock rings on the door. Of course Taeyong is here early, Doyoung knew from when he begged to see him in the three days they synced in LA, Taeyong to choreograph for some famous company and Doyoung to perform in some K-pop event, that Taeyong would present himself at his door with a metaphorical bow on his head.

This thing started for Doyoung’s pleasure—but now he thinks Taeyong is the one who draws more out of it.

Taeyong can surely wait until he finishes, he thinks languidly, stretching in his chair. He surely can.

“Come in,” Doyoung leaves the door open for Taeyong, because he might be an asshole but he’s a _gentleman,_ thank you very much. He snorts—nothing’s funny. Taeyong meets him with that expression of an offended, wounded bird that looks like you took his kids away from him and stabbed him in his heart at the same time and Doyoung snorts again, but with no laughter this time. Still, nothing is funny. “Don’t need any words to guess what you're thinking.”

“Seriously? You have a concert tomorrow.”

When the fuck did Doyoung’s life become such a _personal_ thing to Taeyong, jeez?

Oh yeah, that's right. From the first time Doyoung fucked him in the bathroom of their company, and Taeyong had come then turned around—shaking legs and all because Doyoung might be a _gentleman,_ but he’s _not_ one when it matters (always)—to remind Doyoung their practice started in ten minutes.

Doyoung is a singer, for god’s sake. Why does he even need dance practice?

“I know. I’ll be fine until then,” Doyoung turns a smile to Taeyong. Fake, but wide. _Can we get to it?_

Taeyong doesn’t want to get to it, seemingly, prodding at Doyoung in a way that is making him sober up, and since he wasn’t that gone in the first place, there is little patience to be wearing thin.

He’s not going to confess his deepest thoughts to Taeyong, break out his shell, in this stupid hotel room in the middle of LA. Taeyong knows—why is he even trying? His smile slowly fades, slowly, until…

“It’s not good for you. Dongyoung-ah—”

In a snap, he's stone-cold _sober._

“Don’t call me that."

“... I’m sorry. I just...”

“It’s okay, don’t worry. Here, just...” Doyoung puts his smile back on, brighter than the fucking _sun._ “Let’s just leave it for tonight?"

Doyoung has never been here to be the thing that Taeyong fixes. Doyoung isn’t here to fuck Taeyong as he begs on the outside—hard and rough—or as he wants on the inside—loving and careful. Doyoung just fucks him.

Opens him up on one, two, then three fingers. Taeyong’s moaning rises in volume at the third which Doyoung carefully pulls in and out of him. He doesn’t want to _hurt_ Taeyong, contrary to what he should seem to.

From his position on his hands and knees, Taeyong almost crumbles when Doyoung presses up into his spot; Doyoung holds him up and pulls out. He rolls a condom down his cock, jacks off a couple of times as he has gone soft during the whole process, lines up his cock with Taeyong’s hole, and pushes in.

As always, Taeyong makes a broken sound; he’s always tight, no matter how many times Doyoung does this to him. Doyoung puts a hand on his lower back and steadies him to fill him up all the way.

Then he waits, grinds in small circles as Taeyong gets used to the feeling. When he does, Doyoung pulls out and slowly pushes back in, over and over again, picking up his pace the slightest every time. The noises Taeyong makes under him are objectively pretty, just like him, with his back arched under Doyoung’s hands. Doyoung grabs his slim waist as he starts giving it to him for good, slaps of his hips against Taeyong’s ass ringing out in the room.

Taeyong’s lost a little weight, Doyoung notices as he pulls Taeyong’s wrists on his back, holding onto both of them as he continues to fuck him harder. Without the support, Taeyong collapses into the pillow, staccato moans muffled into the fabric.

Doyoung feels the pleasure rising in his stomach, but he doesn’t want to come first. Holding onto Taeyong’s wrists with only one hand, he plasters himself to Taeyong’s back as much as he can, reaching around to fist a hand around his cock.

Taeyong doesn’t react at that as much as he does when Doyoung presses a little kiss behind his ear—that’s when he lets go, moans out a broken, ugly sound, and tightens around Doyoung, _close._ He’s close too—Doyoung quickens his pace, grinds deeper into Taeyong instead, too deep to reach his spot, and just jerks him off faster. The strain from holding himself up like this and not crushing Taeyong makes itself known in Doyoung’s thighs, so he pulls back up.

He finishes Taeyong like this, with Taeyong’s broken screams still muffled by the pillow. Comes into the condom himself too, buried deep into Taeyong. Takes just five seconds to recover his breath before he pulls out and takes the condom off, tying it up and throwing it onto the trash.

Taeyong turns around to lay on his back, red and panting. Doyoung spares him a short glance as he gets up himself, finding his boxers and slipping them onto his hips.

“Want me to leave?”

“Take your time,” Doyoung replies in return, throwing his shirt and shorts on and heading to the window. When he opens it, the cold air filters through the room, making Taeyong curl into himself. “You can take a shower.”

“Thanks,” Taeyong says. Doyoung meets his affirmation with a hum, lighting up another cigarette. Despite how his manager shits on him on a daily basis, he got Doyoung a hotel room where he can smoke. At that moment, that’s all that matters to him.

The truth is cigarettes don’t taste that good to him. But alcohol has never held much of an appeal—Doyoung hates nothing more than being drunk out of his mind with that feeling of nausea in the back of his throat, partly the alcohol and partly feeling sick at the world. Weed, whenever he tries it for real, is just as terrible, making him feel floaty and lost.

Doyoung doesn’t like escaping. He gets it, why so many artists turn to drugs and alcohol. That glaring emptiness that follows you everywhere you go, that black hole in your heart can’t be filled with anything material or immaterial alike. At most, you can identify some temporary release. Doyoung has tried many things—religion, sex, substances, philosophy, traveling.

Music doesn’t qualify, because music doesn’t fill anything—music deepens that hole with the more Doyoung gives of himself, music is there to _be_ that hole as Doyoung pours himself in emotional songs speaking of love and things he hasn’t gotten to feel in years.

Luckily, he had once and still has the strength to pull from those memories. Sometimes, the strength comes from the imagination of an alternate himself—one where he’s happy, where the love he once felt wasn’t crushed under the expectations of the world. One where it bloomed alongside others, where he would’ve been part of a nice group of people, maybe as the eldest taking care of his dongsaengs, maybe as the youngest lovingly making fun of his hyungs.

But as it stands, Doyoung is alone. He gets why some people would choose to escape to those other universes infested with happiness. When there’s no fight, there’s flight—but Doyoung doesn’t like escaping.

As painful as it is, staying with his feet firmly planted on the ground is the only thing keeping him alive. So, he chooses the vices that twist his mind the least—cigarettes and sex.

In moderation, because those who believe in too much have nothing of themselves left.

They end up fucking once more before Taeyong leaves. Doyoung fits his cock in Taeyong’s mouth, his pretty eyes staring up at him.

When Taeyong climbs in his lap, Doyoung damns him with the three words he begs to hear most. “I love you,” he tells Taeyong, whispered prettily in his ear as he lets go and breaks above Doyoung, warm breath and hot tears wetting Doyoung’s neck.

There they are—he says them, and as Taeyong leaves through the door of the hotel room, Doyoung knows he won’t ever want to see him again.

It’s kind of sad how Doyoung can only comfortably fuck around with people who are already dating someone since he knows they won’t want more from him.

That’s why he falls easily in Yuta’s bed—or more accurately, in the disgustingly bright pink sheets of a cheap love motel room Yuta got somewhere. Probably with his boyfriend’s credit card.

“What’s so funny?” Yuta lilts when Doyoung laughs in his neck, way too calm for Doyoung’s hand wrapped around his throat.

“Does he know you’re here?”

Yuta chuckles, a bright sound that bounces off the artificial pink walls. “Nah. Not today.”

Unfortunately, Doyoung is nothing but a little bitch, so he immediately latches his mouth under Yuta’s ear, making out with his neck until not even Yuta can hold back a moan. A bright red patch blooms under Doyoung’s mouth, later to turn into an aggressive purple bruise. _Exciting._

If only his best friend knew it was Doyoung doing this to his boyfriend.

Doyoung pulls back, grinning down at Yuta, who meets his slow grin with just as languid of a smile, Doyoung’s thumb holding his chin up. They kiss—wet, messy, and fast, just how they both like it. When he pulls back, Yuta’s tinge of lipstick is smudged at the corner of his mouth— _pretty._

Yuta is just as pretty with four of Doyoung’s fingers pressing up inside him, pushing him to the edge just as Doyoung’s other hand presses tighter around the base of his neck, not completely cutting off his airflow while making him _feel_ it. Doyoung likes this most with him—that whatever level of trust they have established between themselves doesn’t include romance, but it absolutely includes them wrecking each other without the slightest ounce of hesitation if the other one needs it.

Everything anyone else wouldn’t be able to give—in that sense, what they have is unique, sure. But Doyoung doesn’t look at Yuta and thinks _I want to spend the rest of my life with him._

He looks at Yuta and thinks _fuck, I want to break him._ Not romantic in the slightest, but damn, it _works._

So he gives it to him—takes him right to the edge and further, until Yuta comes untouched with a tremble, laughing through his orgasm. He lets go of the sheets to kiss Doyoung right after he does, still laughing in Doyoung’s mouth as he grinds down on his fingers. Yuta knows nothing like overstimulation, or sensitivity, or anything like that—he’d live his entire life with something inside him if he could.

If he wasn’t a world-class dancer, that is.

He pulls his fingers out of Yuta, barely taking a second to slide on a condom and slick himself up before he pushes into Yuta, keeping an eye on his rolling eyes-open mouth-head thrown back expression. He doesn’t give him time to adjust because Yuta hates that, drags his hands over Yuta’s sides and lean stomach instead to grip his hips and fuck up into him with enough force to shake the cheap bed.

And then faster and faster and harder, until Yuta’s a moaning mess under him, legs wrapped loosely around Doyoung’s waist and nails digging crescents on his biceps. Doyoung gives it to him like he knows how to do it best, rough and hard and entirely unforgiving—when he hovers over him, Yuta’s eyes open to stare into his own.

He looks fully and absolutely _wrecked_ —from the red lipstick smudged over the corner of his mouth, the mascara already dripping from where Yuta rubbed at his eyes, teary with the onslaught of pleasure. He looks truly and absolutely at the mercy of whatever Doyoung wants to do. And gosh, Doyoung wants to do _a lot._

“Do it.”

With his hand caressing Yuta’s cheek, Doyoung pulls at his bottom lip, watching it bounce when he lets go, slow and careful. The first slap turns Yuta’s head to the left, leaving him a moaning mess. Doyoung tries to continue fucking into him at the same speed, but his pace falters when he delivers the second, to the other side this time.

Yuta’s cheeks redden; when his eyes fall back to the middle, Doyoung caresses his lips over the red prints he’s left behind, drawing a louder groan out of Yuta.

“More,” he demands. Doyoung obeys, hitting harder than before—harder than even he expected even, the gasping sound entirely his own. But _goddamn_ does Yuta tighten like a vice around him, arching his back. _More,_ he mouths, so Doyoung gives him more, snapping hard at first and then lighter and lighter until they’re barely taps and Yuta is barely a second from coming. All he needs is that one touch, Doyoung knows, but he doesn’t give him that, shoves his fingers down his throat instead and feels Yuta choke on them, spit dribbling down the corners of his mouth to his chin. His eyes are so wide and pretty, his hands traveling over Doyoung’s shoulders to grip the back of his hair _tight_ , drawing Doyoung’s own pain.

This is why he likes Yuta—he can do all of this to him and still feel alright after, _satisfied_ , more than, even. Because when he frees his fingers from Yuta’s mouth, his lips wrapping around them, and he looks into Yuta’s eyes, he knows it’s just the sex.

Fucking _good_ sex that is, red lines down his back as Doyoung says fuck it and latches his mouth on Yuta’s nipple, determined to make him come untouched again. If it’s anyone who can do it, it’s him.

Amazingly, Yuta _does._ Not without a loud scream and Doyoung’s fingers inside him instead, knowing he’d get to his spot easier this way, but he _does,_ trembling wildly under Doyoung. When he’s done with taking in desperate lungfuls of air, he places Doyoung’s hand around his own throat, just as a faint presence this time, and pulls Doyoung towards him to fuck him again until Doyoung comes as well, deep into the condom.

And then it’s done. The comedown for Doyoung has always been quick, tendrils of sex leaving his brain too rapidly to be comfortable sitting in bed. At least it’s Yuta, so he doesn’t feel the need to jump up and get away from the situation. He lounges on the bed instead, for a bit, before he brings wet tissues and cleans them both up. Yuta slips his boxers and shirt back on and Doyoung does the same, sitting at the foot of the bed to light up a cigarette while Yuta stands up against the headboard.

Doyoung watches with great satisfaction how sluggish his movements are, the shadow of a tremble still present in the way he opens his pack of cigarettes and lights one up. His cheeks are red and so is his throat—Doyoung pressed _hard,_ he’s not surprised.

He doesn’t know why the marks get to him that much, but they do, ready to...

Before Yuta opens his mouth and ruins Doyoung’s headspace, throwing him right into freezing water.

“Johnny told me you’re ignoring Taeyong recently. Makes sense, why you came to me to get your dick wet.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow at Yuta. Is he forgetting he called Doyoung?

“Metaphorically,” Yuta rolls his eyes, laying back while twirling the cigarette between his fingers. “You said yes.”

“You’re gonna ruin the sheets.”

“We’ll pay the hotel for new ones.”

Doyoung rolls his eyes. Reflex, in Yuta’s presence.

“Now tell me. What’s up with you and Taeyong?”

That’s the problem with shitting where you eat—or fucking where you work, more appropriately. Everyone gets to witness the mess that is Doyoung’s dirty laundry and draw a fucked-up sense of satisfaction from it.

Well, lucky Doyoung doesn’t give a shit anymore about what people think of him.

“We’re done. Nothing else to say. It was fun while it lasted, now we’re done.”

“Did he have a say in that, or was it only you?”

Doyoung takes another drag, preparing to light up another one. This is going to be a whole conversation. “Me.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted more than he could have. And he wasn’t enough of what I needed.”

Yuta scoffs. “I also need more than Johnny, but I still keep him around, you know. He does his thing, I do my thing. He knows that. I’m sure Taeyong would’ve understood too.”

“I don’t know if he would have. It’s for his own good,” Doyoung justifies, which honestly was one of the biggest reasons. “Taeyong is simple, even if he doesn’t know it. He’ll meet a nice guy that will be able to give him what he wants, a nice white picket fence home and nasty sex where he takes care of him after and he’ll be happy.”

Doyoung firmly believes in that—he would’ve never been able to give Taeyong the happiness that he wanted, and Taeyong would have never left of his own accord. Why would he continue making him miserable?

“That’s some bullshit, baby, and you know it,” Yuta snorts in amused laughter. “Nobody’s that simple. You fucked him up already. Even if he meets that nice guy or whatever, you’ll always be on his mind and he’ll never be able to let go of who you were just because you twisted him so deeply.”

_Jesus fuck._

“You know that pain is always a stronger feeling than happiness. You’re just letting him go cause you don’t wanna take responsibility for what you did to him when Taeyong just did what any man would’ve done—want to help you because he saw there’s something there under this ugly, thorny exterior of yours.”

“Fucking hell, Yuta! What the _fuck?”_

“If you wanted to be comforted, you wouldn’t have come to me,” Yuta shrugs.

There are those people on earth that always meet you with the truth—that help you come to terms with the consequences of things that you’ve done by laying out the plain facts in front of you. In the beginning, you might feel offended, but later you realize that coming to terms with those facts is what helps you heal and become better.

Yuta isn’t one of those people. Yuta uses the truth like it’s a weapon, stabbing it in Doyoung’s heart and leaving wounds just like those he leaves on other people, deep and bloody and agonizing.

Well, then _fuck it._ Taeyong’s little fucked-up self, his Mother Teresa complex mixed with severe mommy issues, isn’t Doyoung’s problem; him getting attached even though Doyoung said they’re just gonna fuck isn’t his responsibility.

“At least be nice and give him Jaehyun’s number. They were making eyes at each other before you showed up and ruined it all.”

Doyoung picks up his phone, sends Taeyong Jaehyun’s contact information, then blocks the number from his phone.

“There you go. Happy?”

“I am, baby, but you’ll never be.”

Taeyong should have known better. Doyoung told him before, that he’s grown to hate all the things that he loves—music first and foremost.

He should’ve known that Doyoung was a boomerang—the harder Taeyong threw and pulled at his emotions, the harder it would come back to hit him.

_“Doyoung? I need you in the meeting room right away.”_

Doyoung makes his way down the stairs half-asleep, yawning his way through every step. Fuck late night choreography practice, and _fuck_ the new teacher they got him when he told them exactly why he can’t work with Taeyong anymore. The woman is a hardass, and not in the fun way—in the way where Doyoung has been losing sleep over stupid choreography for the past weeks instead of practicing to bring his vocals to where they should be to push further for the next album.

So yes, he’s not too pleased, forcefully pushing open the door just to be faced not only with his manager—but with a room full of company executives.

His manager wordlessly points to the screen.

That’s _him._

That’s him in Busan, walking into the hotel Yuta was known to have stayed at because he once again revealed the name in a misaligned photo carelessly posted on Instagram. The title of the post, by the likes of it some cheap gossip article, doesn’t pull any punches with what they assumed was going on.

“What proof do they have?” Doyoung asks, wide awake.

“You’re admitting to—”

Doyoung throws the company executives a look that very clearly says _are you fucking with me?_

“None,” his manager supplies. “Just the fact they know you’re friends. We just wanted to know if this is a potential long-term problem. If you’re…”

“I’m not dating him. Hell no.”

“Great. His relationship with Johnny Suh is almost public and that will be a big enough deal for us even if Johnny is just an employee, so we don’t want anything else happening.”

Fuck, Doyoung almost regrets introducing them in the first place.

He pulls his phone out to check the article out himself, entirely unsurprised to see one single message from Yuta on his screen.

_‘See the articles? We’re on the news baby!’_

Of course Yuta doesn’t give a shit—he’s one second away from doing porn at any given time. Who cares about who he has sex with?

Instead, Doyoung opens the article and scrolls through the comments.

 _I know this is nothing and Yuta’s dating someone shh, but I ship them_ 😍

_Of course they’re meeting at his hotel, if they went out you all would hound them and piss them off. Get a life, go out and touch some grass._

_yall are freaks theyre friends stfu_

Doyoung smiles. Well, then it’s good they caught him when he walked in, not when he came out limping and with a newly-acquired scarf covering up his mangled neck.

“Be more careful, Doyoung,” his manager sighs a futile remark, signing for him to leave the room. The executives look at him like hounds, but his manager has already given up on controlling Doyoung. And for good reason.

Actually, Doyoung _will_ be more careful. Music and his career and his fans are the only things he has—he won’t give them up that easily, and certainly not for something he doesn’t care that much about, sex.

That night, Doyoung lays in bed, ceiling dark in front of his eyes, and _thinks._

He thinks of him—the one before the one before Taeyong, the one for whom Doyoung might have broken his shell for—but got it forcefully broken before he could. The one before Taeyong, who didn’t wait but instead pushed—to Doyoung, his sister, his family—who almost outed Doyoung to the entire world. And Taeyong, who waited but didn’t realize that Doyoung’s shell was now an impenetrable brick wall, stretching to the skies. Taeyong was strong, was powerful, but nothing human could have broken down that wall anyway.

Doyoung thinks of all of them, the many others in between, and thinks... what’s the point? He doesn’t deserve it anyway.

For people like him, it’s all going to end the same.

_“Oppa, life is hard nowadays,”_ he reads out a comment on the VLive, tsking a genuine sound. “Life is hard nowadays, isn’t it? If I could take all your pain upon myself, I would. I really, _really_ would. But I can’t, so all I can do is share some pretty words,” he lays back, tucking his legs onto his chair and pausing to figure out what he wants to say. They deserve it, all of these thousands of people awake at 2 AM to watch him.

“One day, it might be better. Those are true words indeed. One day, it might be better, and it might suit us to live on, waiting for that day. But sometimes, it’s better to ask yourself: what am I sacrificing myself for?

“Sometimes, we sacrifice ourselves for worthy things: we study hard to enter a good college, get a proper education. We work hard to make ourselves and others proud. We compromise because we understand the struggles of others and strive to meet them in the middle. In that case, we must find it in ourselves to keep going, knowing those better days are ahead.

“But sometimes… sometimes, we sacrifice ourselves because pain is easier to bear than uncertainty. Pain is _comfortable._ In those moments, we tell ourselves that _it is fine._ We are fine, because the devil we know is easier to bear than the devil unknown.

“Well, let me tell you. Complacency is our worst devil, getting you stuck somewhere far below what you deserve. Believe me—all of you, I _know_ you deserve more. The best thing you can do for yourself is to give up. Go out, do those better things—leave aside expectations and do whatever you need to do. Sometimes, others may see you as a bad person, but sometimes… you are just the person to do what everyone knows needs to be done but no one has the courage to.

“Indeed, happy things might not always await. Trust me, I speak from experience. But at least… At least, you’ll be _free.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/bbysvts) and [cc](https://curiouscat.me/bbysvts). Thoughts are very much appreciated. <3


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